MORIMOTO AND BUDDAKAN

In January, just before making his Manhattan début with these two supersized eateries, the Philadelphia restaurateur Stephen Starr boasted to the Times that “Morimoto will be far more interesting than any restaurant New York has ever seen.” Well, maybe, if New York hasn’t lately visited Megu, or En Japanese Brasserie, or even Del Posto, just across the street. It is true, though, that Starr has something special in the Teddy-bear-like Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto, more mascot than chef, who makes nightly rounds in his eponymous restaurant to scattered applause and blinding photo flashes.

How much Morimoto actually contributes to putting food on the plate is unclear, but the kitchen deserves praise. The Japanese-fusion menu has its low moments: a tuna-pizza appetizer paired oddly tasteless, almost mushy fish with an unappealing anchovy aioli. But there’s a wonderfully tender ten-hour pork, set into a warm, salty congee, and a custard of briny tofu made tableside, accompanied by a delicate lobster sauce. An entrée of ishi yaki buri bop, yellowtail and rice cooked, with a tiny egg, inside a hot bowl, makes each plump and sticky kernel of rice pop with flavor. It’s nearly enough to distract one from the cold, glittering surfaces: the wall of water bottles, the slippery, translucent chopsticks, the diners’ sleek, plasticine faces.

At Buddakan, on the other hand, nothing could mitigate the unpleasantly garish atmosphere. The upstairs lounge is clogged with slick-haired men doused in cologne and young, look-alike women (black sheaths, vampish lipstick), at least some of whom are meant, however haplessly, to be hostesses. Guests descend a steep flight of steps to the dining hall, an absurd palace fantasia featuring a banquet table for thirty, where the crowd spills out from the adjoining “Golden Library,” clutching brightly colored cocktails. These have ominously theological names like Sin and Sacred, and the cloying taste of Communion wine. Anyone who can finish one, much less order another, probably isn’t too concerned about the food, though some of it is very good: frog legs, stir-fried with chives, are addictively nutty, and the taro-puff lollipops’ flaky shells conceal a generous portion of ginger-infused pork. The rest of it—Peking duck, short ribs—is pleasant enough, and the vegetable fried rice nearly justifies its price with the addition of a sweet coconut foam. Too bad it all gets blanketed under unmodulated spice—an attempt, perhaps, to penetrate those booze-deadened taste buds. (Both restaurants open daily for dinner. Morimoto entrées $23-$44. Buddakan entrées $14-$56.)